Night of Ardor
by Zayz
Summary: Sparrabeth. "The blatant craving, the white-hot friction, the seamless chemistry – all of it was incontrovertible...it could only be described as beautifully devastating." R&R?


**A/N: This fic is a birthday present for my friend Liz (XxIcexX). She's the coolest thing since holey cheese, which is why she gets this oddly-but-meanly-humorous Sparrabeth oneshot from me. She knows it's because she's the only one I'd do it for. Have a happy birthday, darling, and I hope you like the fic.**

**Thanks as well to Anna (Jack.Sparrow.1245) for beta-ing this for me – I really do appreciate it.**

**The quote below is from the song I Hate Everything About You, by Three Days Grace, so it's obviously not mine. The characters used in this story are also not mine, because they unfortunately belong to the Disney writers (who, in my humble opinion, abused them horribly in AWE, I thought I'd add). Just so we're clear.**

**Enjoy; and, of course, review.**

* * *

_I hate everything about you  
Why do I love you?  
You hate everything about me  
Why do you love me?  
_

**-- & --**

It was impossible for him to think about her that way.

How could he, really? She was the damn Governor's daughter. She was the damn Turner bride. She was also the damn Pirate King (his own bloody fault, he pointed out to himself), the damn woman he'd saved on a whim when her whelp almost died, which he still somewhat regretted.

And, of course, she was the damn murderess responsible for his brief visit to Davy Jones's locker – he still had nightmares about that, even to this day.

So, with all these crimes against her, how could he possibly still think of her that way? Was he daft? Had he finally lost it, after all those years of relentlessly consuming rum when everyone told him not to? It certainly seemed like it. Only then would he think about this curse of a woman for more than a moment of his valuable time.

He scowled to himself in the darkness of his cabin, with the faintest traces of moonlight attempting to penetrate through his drawn curtains; she really was extraordinary. He had to give her _that_ much. She looked innocent enough upon first glance, but the moment anyone took the time to get to know her, she revealed herself to be an utterly ruthless and unfeasible piece of work – wilder and more unstoppable than nature itself. He wondered how Will Turner could find it in his simplistic, _loyal_ nature to put up with her – even love her wholeheartedly – when _he_, of all people, could not even like her properly.

He growled under his breath, oh so softly, and privately damned her to the deepest and most painful inner-pits of hell.

His tone sounded bitter to him, even in his own head, and he knew why – he couldn't damn her in this manner, because if he did, he was sure he'd end up following her right into the heart of the fire himself, whether or not he deliberately made the decision. Damning her was no longer a fulfilling option, because somehow, she'd ingrained herself into his very soul – like one of his pirate-branding tattoos – and he was stuck with her.

He had done everything he could to rid himself of her, but she was there to stay. Her pain was his pain, her joy was his joy. Her damnation was his damnation. She was impervious to harm on his account, because if he tried to destroy her, he would destroy himself in the bargain – which was a problem because he liked being alive.

Choking back another aggravated growl, he damned her (and consequently himself) in his head for the second time – this was so bloody annoying.

How had he gotten this far, anyway? What was the word she'd said, or the face she'd made, that had won him over so irrevocably? What exactly about her tiresome disposition did he find so grudgingly appealing? How had she shattered his precious, hard-earned control so completely? How had he let her?

His frustration only grew as he pondered these queries to limited success, the emotion edging now towards pure rage too vast to be condensed into his singular person. Things had tumbled too far out of his control, he realized; he couldn't backtrack the path he had chosen, because all the steps were gone, leaving him only with his bewildering prize – a woman he knew he cared for, even though he hated her more than he'd hated any human being he'd previously laid his eyes on, with only the possible exception of Hector Barbossa.

Brilliant; just _bloody_ brilliant.

His head throbbing with all these thoughts, he groaned to himself and turned over on his bed. There, beside him, was Elizabeth Turner, the she-devil herself, curled up too innocently in his blankets, as naked as he was and fast asleep.

A wave of abhorrence so ugly he could taste it for all its acrimony welled up inside of him; but with it came a wave just as pungent of something darker, more powerful and far more embarrassing.

Lust.

The two tastes, diverse yet eerily similar all the same, flavored his mouth in a way it had never been flavored before. He wasn't exactly sure if he liked it yet. It was the same sort of taste he got when he kissed her; it both enticed and sickened him, drew him in and pushed him away. What was he going to do with her?

Hesitantly, he touched her cheek, and then her hair, her ear, her neck, her shoulder. The very tips of his fingers grazed over her achingly warm skin, and sent chills down his spine. Gut-wrenching, mildly perverse desires poisoned his mind, aroused his numb systems deliciously. When he found his favorite spot – a tiny crevice just under her throat – he began to rub it, with growing intensity, until he heard the smallest of sounds unconsciously escape her rosy lips.

A moan of pleasure.

Inspired, he rubbed her harder, harder, harder, until her moans got progressively louder, her face slightly more uncomfortable; it was a bit sadistic of him, but he enjoyed every second of her uneasiness. His want began to surge dangerously as he observed her here, as vulnerable to him as an insect under his shoe; but when he got a little too excited, when his fingers dug in a little too far, her eyes snapped open, two perfect mosaics of frightened mahogany.

She took a moment to focus in on him and the hungry look decorating his features, but when she knew where she was and what was going on, the expression he saw matched what he was feeling already – a strange sort of a surrender, as though she knew as well as he did that the goal so visible on his face was mutual between them.

So, with this on his side, he leaned into her, barely breathing; and after a split-second of hesitation, he was swift to capture her lips within his own, with the fortitude of a man starved of sustinence all his life. Basically helpless to the menacing ferocity of his actions, she allowed herself to oblige willingly, kissing him back as fiercely as she was capable of. She knew he wasn't going to let her go, but for once, she accepted her fate with open arms – and open lips.

The blatant craving, the white-hot friction, the seamless chemistry – all of it was incontrovertible, but it was dressed in so many layers of infuriation, pent-up emotion, and unquenchable desire that it could only be described as beautifully devastating.

His tongue was quick to pilfer its way into her waiting mouth, and she nearly bit it in her eagerness, but neither of them particularly cared – all that mattered was that they were there, in his bed, and there was nothing left to stop them from doing what they knew they desperately needed.

His fingernails attached themselves to the soft flesh of her waist, and he picked her up and threw her over himself, his legs trapping hers unremittingly. Merciless, he managed to wrench his lips away from hers and proceeded by placing purposefully hot and open-mouthed kisses along her delicately pale jaw-line – an unfairly compelling invitation. He could feel her back arch and her being stiffen, hear her breath hitch in her throat, and it filled him with a savage satisfaction.

Wasting no time, he made his way down her graceful neck, his highly experienced and talented tongue going just fast enough to put her systems into overdrive and just slow enough to drive her bonkers, making her covet for more – more kissing, more wanting, more sinning. She was almost like a toy to him, and he wanted to figure out exactly how many different ways he could play with her before she eventually broke past the point of any return.

When he finally reached her shoulder, which was sweating quite attractively, he asked her in a tone of mixed sarcasm and curiosity, "Do you _love_ me, Bess?"

Her hands were clutching his hair and nearly pulling it out of his scalp; but when she heard his question, her grip on him, if anything, only increased.

"Y-yes," she whispered almost hesitantly in response. "I do."

He smiled knowingly into the shoulder he was at, planted a careless kiss upon it that made her shudder involuntarily, and then resurfaced to grin sinisterly at her. "I thought you might."

And that was all he needed. In a flash, he pinned her down beneath him, his weight crushing her, while he kissed her ravenously once more. All he could see was black – pure black. And it was more than welcome.

He kissed her in this fashion on every inch of her body for what was most likely hours, with absolutely no resistance from her to speak of. He touched her everywhere, ingrained himself physically onto her as she had done to him emotionally, forced highly intriguing sounds out of her throat that made her color pink; essentially, he made hard, passionate love to her for quite some time, and she responded back with a grit he had never dreamed she possessed. They were laced together, every part of them pressing into the other, with no secrets left to hide; just him and her, indulging and in turn revelling in their acts of ardor.

Unresolved tension from previous occasions was all made up in that small, fiery window of time, in every way possible, because he knew that he had to let his usually-passive emotions go eventually. He wouldn't be able to survive if he didn't, and this just happened to be the magic night.

But, roughly one and a half hours after he initially awoke her, that beguiling surge finally passed, as abruptly as it came. Smarting and exhausted, he seperated his mouth from hers at long last, and he settled back into his starting place inches from her face and only stared at her; his flat, dark eyes boring into her glittering brown ones. He was still on top of her, but they remained silent now, besides their erratic breathing and even more erratic heartbeats.

Her heat felt feverish to him, and she smelled sweet, like cinnamon. Her kissed lips boasted that bruised-red tint that told him he'd done his job well, while her skin was damp and soft to the touch. Her hair was wild and disheveled, framing her eyes and sticking to her cheeks, and she was even quivering slightly. He grinned; the exposure to this rare, susceptible side of her made him want to make love to her all over again, although he knew better than to.

But, his thoughts were interrupted when she was the first to speak, as expected. She had endured enough of this raw silence and wordless communication, it seemed; he knew she always needed _something _happening, whether it was physical or verbal, because she couldn't stand being at a standstill, even for a minute. He both loved and loathed that about her, although he wasn't sure which it was at this particular moment in time.

"Jack," she said his name quietly.

"What, pet?" he asked her, just as quietly.

She paused, quickly analyzing his lackluster tone, but inquired cautiously all the same, "After...tonight, I want to know – do you love _me_?"

A teasing grin played at the corners of his mouth. "Maybe I do, darling," he said, his tone somehow both light and quite meaningful simultaneously.

"I think you do," she mused aloud, shifting under him so that they were next to each other again and his arm was wrapped around her waist. "I think you _do_ love me, Jack."

"Really," he said blankly, more as a statement rather than a question. His smirk swiftly melted into something closer to a leer, not liking her tone (almost offhand) or quick assumption, but he didn't move. Not yet.

She didn't say anything else either – she just continued to look intensely at him, while he looked as intensely back at her. Doing some quick calculating and making some swift decisions in the protection and confidentiality of his throbbing, lust-tainted mind, he studied her carefully, minutely…

Until he suddenly pushed her away from him, the motion slickly fluid, and forced her to neatly topple off of his bed to the floor with a shriek.

His voice as glossy as silk and his tone portentous, he called down to her, "Get the bloody hell out of my bed then, Mrs. _Turner_; I want to sleep alone tonight."

Gleefully content with the notion that she was now also familiar with the sensation of having another person turn the tables on her peace all of a sudden, he smirked to himself and rolled over to get comfortable again.

Though a part of him did feel bad about throwing her out so unexpectedly and another part almost missed her warm weight beside him, he waved the ideas aside impatiently, and relaxed himself by imagining what her expression must've looked like when she hit the floor. Admittedly, she was the best married-wench he'd ever had in his relatively small amount of years, but that didn't mean he had to like her, or even love her – the fact that he did was simply a bonus. He was now happy to report that some of his mad yearning had been satiated at long last, leaving him a little more composed and a little less befuddled.

Not to mention satisfyingly wet between the legs.

He smirked to himself for what had to be the third or fourth time that evening as he fell into his slumber:

Well then, _that_ was taken care of.


End file.
